Seasonal Allergies
by Caleb Bollenbacher
It’s that time of year again. It’s the time when, even though I’m still bundling up to fight the cold, the universe insists to me that the seasons are changing, in the form of daily push notifications reminding me that baseball has begun. Spring is upon us, and with it comes plenty of sighs and eye rolls to mask the pain. Baseball and I have a difficult relationship, you see. We always have. That’s the nature of being a Cubs fan. For me, baseball is all about misery, and the misery is an art form that I have perfected. After years of asking my dad – who I inherited the Cubbies from – if this would be “the year”, only to repeatedly ignore his sage answers of “no”, I had my heart broken one too many times to bother with hope any more. Rather than fall into the depressing trap of full-time cynicism, I sought a temporary solution for the pain: a Band-aid in the form of a bandwagon. Having taken up residence in Texas during college, I figured that adopting the local team was a safe bet, seeing as how they were an American League team and wouldn’t conflict with my natural allegiance. And so I cheered for the Rangers, and experienced a different kind of pain. While the Cubs are almost never in danger of any sort of success, the Rangers are the opposite side of the antagonizing spectrum. Twice I watched them go to the World Series. Each time I thought that I would finally learn what it felt like to cheer for a winner. In 2011, the year after a heartbreaking no-show in the Series, I attended Game 2 of the ALCS and witnessed Nelson Cruz’s walk-off grand slam in extra innings…and I thought I was lucky enough to be a part of something magical. Just like the previous year, it wasn’t to be. So here I am, rooting for one team that hasn’t made the World Series in the lifetime of anyone I know and one team that has mastered the art of the finish line collapse. Like I said, baseball is difficult for me. You can see why I might have become somewhat bitter. Now when those alerts show up on my phone telling me that baseball is happening, something dies inside of me all over again. I’ve considered quitting, 10 GAME CHANGER
just like every good addict does. It’s no surprise really, not if you’ve ever heard me talk about the sport like it’s some ex-girlfriend out of all the worst kinds of clichés. But in all the misery, in all the examining of why this is America’s so-called national pastime, I might have found enough answers to prevail. Baseball might not dominate the headlines like it used to. What with the rising popularity of other sports and the seemingly infinite scandals and stretches of inaction, it makes sense. And yet, there’s something about the sport that is inescapable. There’s a magic to going to the ballpark that’s present in few other places. There’s something entrancing about watching from the living room or tuning in on the car radio. Baseball and America have been synonymous for so long, it can’t help but have a narrative to it, and there’s something special to that. While I constantly malign the never-ending discourse on arbitrary statistics that reign in baseball like in no other sport, there is beauty in the detail. The discussion goes on because each piece of the puzzle is part of a greater story. Baseball is spring and baseball is summer, and in the fall only the heroes are left standing. There’s poetry in the simplicity of that fact, that at its essence baseball is the seasons. And in the winter there is only cold and quiet. No other sport is so entrenched in tradition, and at the end of the day that’s why we come back to it. If for nothing else, we watch because that’s just what we do, and I think that’s okay. For me the tradition is a painful one, because I know the Cubs may never win. But deep down inside, tradition is a part of us, and we won’t leave it behind. We can’t give up on it, and I don’t think any of us really want to.